


I got that good thing for you

by canistakahari



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Tree, Cookies, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Winter, for the aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: When it comes down to it, Steve will do anything for Bucky. Even if that involves fulfilling a very specific seasonally-adjacent fantasy.





	I got that good thing for you

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [aplethora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aplethora/pseuds/aplethora) and [affectingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/pseuds/affectingly) for cheerleading throughout the prolonged writing process, and huuuge thanks to [newsbypostcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard) and [starsandgraces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces) for betaing so quickly and on such short notice <3
> 
> before this fic even came into being beyond a short snippet, [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight) drew some absolutely astounding art that you should absolutely check out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161694).

“I want a Christmas tree.” Bucky announces it into a comfortable silence that has stretched between them for almost an hour. 

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. He puts down his book. “You’re Jewish.”

“You’re not,” says Bucky.

“Is this tree for me?”

“This tree is for  _ambiance_.” Bucky looks determinedly between the fireplace and the big open space directly adjacent to it, presumably in the middle of mentally installing a Christmas tree.

If Bucky wants a tree, then Steve is going to get him a tree.

“Does this mean we’re doing presents?” asks Steve.

“I want a Christmas _tree_ ,” says Bucky dismissively, turning his attention back to the TV. “That doesn’t mean I want to _do Christmas_.”

“Fair enough.” Steve stands up, stretching languidly and scratching at his belly. “Do you want ornaments?”

“No.” Bucky leans back into the arm of the couch, pushing his legs across the cushions to take up the space that Steve just vacated. He reaches up to gather his hair into a knot, deftly tying it into a bun with an elastic he keeps on his wrist. “Just lights.”

“This is very specific.” Steve should probably write it down. “Anything else?”  
  
“Where can we find a bearskin rug?” Bucky asks.  
  
“I,” Steve says, at a loss. “Goodwill?”

“Hmm,” says Bucky. It’s the kind of ‘hmm’ that means _absolutely not but I’m proud you tried_. “Forget the rug for now. Tree first.”

“It can’t be fake?” asks Steve. He doesn’t have a single solitary hope that Bucky is going to say yes, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. This could be easy wish fulfillment. Go to the store, buy a tree. Put it up, and… Look at it?

Bucky rotates his head like an owl and pins Steve with a dead stare. “Fake?”

“Artificial,” tries Steve, “You know—”

“No,” says Bucky flatly. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Steve puts his hands up, placating. He is not attached to the idea of a fake tree. This isn’t about him, anyway. This is about Bucky. And his… tree. “We’ll get a real one. Promise.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky slowly, like it’s obvious. “You're cutting it down.”

oOo

“Was it entirely necessary to drive upstate?” Bucky is sitting bundled in the passenger seat, his socked feet up on the dash. “I’m sure there are farms that are closer. Like Long Island.”  
  
“You want a tree,” says Steve. “And I did research. I called ahead. I think you’ll be happy with the available stock.”

Steve didn't just do research. He spent three whole hours online, learning about every single tree farm within 100 miles of New York City. He visited Facebook pages and websites. He read frequently asked questions, compared reviews, and created a spreadsheet of all the distances with hyperlinks to google maps.

He’s picked the most reputable, most experienced, and best reviewed farm.

It just happens to be a two hour drive north. One way.

“This is nice,” comments Bucky. He's looking out the window, wrapped in a big plaid blanket thing that he's been wearing since the temperature dropped. There’s a big chunky infinity scarf wrapped around his face. His coat is on the backseat.

“You warm enough?” asks Steve.

“Just about,” says Bucky.

Steve, by contrast, is absolutely sweltering. The heat is cranked, not at Bucky’s direct request, but Steve knows that Bucky runs a lot colder than he does.

“Good,” says Steve. “Radio?”  
  
“Spotify,” corrects Bucky, grabbing his phone. After a moment, music Steve absolutely does not recognize starts playing.  
  
The next time Steve glances over at him, about five minutes later, Bucky is asleep against the window, mouth hanging open.  
  
Something big and warm swells up inside Steve. He grins stupidly at Bucky.

“Eyes on the road,” mumbles Bucky.

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve huffs. “I’m driving, pal.”

oOo

They bundle up when they get out of the car, scarves, hats, and gloves, and set off down rows and rows of evergreen trees, all dusted with a light frosting of snow, boots crunching and squeaking.

Steve is carrying an axe over his shoulder, while Bucky zigzags between trees, dismissing most within seconds.

“What about that one?” asks Steve.

“Too short.”

“That one?”

“Too _tall_.”

“This one is nice. Shapely.”

“ _Shapely_.” Bucky stops walking abruptly and Steve collides with his back.

“Oof.”

Bucky spins around and stabs Steve in the chest with his mitten. “We didn’t drive two hours for any old tree, Steve.”  
  
“We sure didn’t,” agrees Steve easily. “We drove two hours for your perfect tree, Buck.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. Then he sniffs and turns around, forging ahead. “Leave the shapeliness to me!”

“You got it,” says Steve. “Just tell me where to swing.”

He can’t help asking, though. Every single one of these trees looks exactly the damn same. They’re nearly all the same height, a respectful six to seven feet, with a nice even...distribution of branches? A good triangular shape. Tree-like. Festive.

“What was wrong with that one?” Steve asks curiously.

“Uneven,” says Bucky shortly.

“Ah,” says Steve.

A couple of times, a tree is deemed worthy enough for a return visit. As they traipse back and forth, the light fades and it starts to snow, thick, fluffy flakes spiralling down from a heavy grey sky.

Bucky stops to critically examine a tree Steve would confidently describe as both tall and symmetrical, so Steve stops too, watching Bucky gather snowflakes in his hair and eyelashes. In his slouchy hat and big scarf, he looks extremely huggable.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky says, in a tone of voice that implies Bucky has already said his name once or twice but Steve wasn’t listening.

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve blinks. He reaches out impulsively, catching one of the flakes that hasn’t already melted with his thumb, and brushing it away from Bucky’s cheek. “You had a little something.”  
  
“It’s kinda falling from the sky, pal,” scoffs Bucky. He jabs a mittened hand at the tree. “This one. Chop chop.”  
  
“The gentleman has made his selection,” Steve intones, hefting the axe. “Step on back.”  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes and removes himself from the vicinity.  
  
Steve swings wide, cleaves the tree’s tender, narrow trunk in two almost instantaneously, and enthusiastically yells, “Timber!” as it crashes down.

“Hope you didn’t break any of the branches,” mutters Bucky, unimpressed.  
  
“Hold this,” says Steve, giving him the axe.

Picking up the tree isn’t as easy as Steve thinks it’s going to be. None of the branches are broken. In fact, they’re annoyingly perky. And sharp. He wraps his arms around it and nearly pokes himself in the eye.  
  
“Don’t squash it!” chides Bucky, hovering like an anxious parent. “Be gentle with it, because it’s the only tree I like.”  
  
“No pressure or anything,” mumbles Steve.

They make it back without incident, and put the tree through the netting machine to get it safely compressed down into something Steve _can_ hold without worrying he’s going to snap it in half.

Then he has to strap it down to the top of the car. While Steve is doing that, Bucky goes to get them hot chocolate, returning once Steve is brushing pine needles off his hands and standing back to examine his handiwork.

“Good job, champ,” says Bucky, handing him a steaming paper cup. It’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“Thanks,” says Steve. “I think.” He takes a sip of the hot chocolate and immediately burns his tongue.

“We should get going,” says Bucky cheerfully. “It's a long drive back.”

“Sure is,” says Steve.

Two hours of Steve driving in the snow, white-knuckling the steering wheel ten miles under the speed limit because all he can imagine is Bucky's perfect tree flying off the roof of the car into the icy abyss.

Bucky sleeps all the way home.

oOo

“Hey,” says Steve much later, when the tree is lying on the rug and there are pine needles strewn over every surface of the foyer, hallway, and living room. Steve’s pretty sure there are pine needles in his underwear. “So, how does this thing stand up?”

Bucky is mostly buried headfirst in the closet, making a huge racket as he fights to remove the vacuum cleaner from under a bunch of their coats. “Yeah,” yells Bucky, “I’m gonna need you to go to the store!”

Steve sighs. “I’ll get my keys.”

(Turns out you need a not insignificant amount of specialized equipment to set up a Christmas tree in your home. The girl at the hardware store keeps talking and handing Steve things, and he nods along and accepts what he's given, and by the time he's back outside, he's carrying two bulging bags and spent over one hundred dollars.

She gave him a lot of advice on how to keep the tree healthy, which he appreciates, and she did it cheerfully and without judgement, which he appreciates even more.)

oOo

When the tree has finally been erected, Bucky kicks Steve out of the living room so that he can vacuum, and Steve spends a solid twenty minutes trying to scrub sap off his hands. His body also pushes out seven splinters, which is a little gross, and he finds a lot of pine needles in his hair.

He can’t hear the vacuum anymore, so he ventures back down and finds the living room empty. Steve is occupied with digging around in the couch cushions, looking for his misplaced phone, before he even realizes that Bucky has melted into the sectional. 

The couch is heavily blanketed at all times, for optimal burrowing, and Bucky is tucked directly into the corner, wrapped in a faux fur throw.

“Boo,” he says, when he notices Steve noticing him.

“Jesus, Buck,” huffs Steve. He doesn’t startle, but it’s close. “Want me to turn the heat up?”

He doesn’t draw attention to the fact that there is a fire going and Steve is maybe three degrees away from stripping off his own shirt.

“I’m good,” says Bucky.

“I also got a buncha lights at the hardware store,” announces Steve, fishing his phone out from the couch. “For the tree.”

“...Multicoloured?” Bucky asks suspiciously.

“Uh,” says Steve. “Yeah?”

“Oh,” says Bucky slowly. “Thank you. But no.”

“No?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “I want the lights to be white.”

“You want them to be white,” says Steve, his heart sinking. “The lights can’t be more than one colour?”

“It’s not that they can’t.” Bucky sounds so reasonable and patient, like he’s explaining to a dog why he’s not allowed up on the bed. “It’s that I don’t want them to be.”

Steve can’t really argue with that. He wants to, but he won’t. “I kept the receipt,” he says weakly. “I can exchange them.”

“Would you?” Bucky asks. “Colours look good outside against snow, but white looks better indoors.”  
  
“You know,” says Steve bracingly. “I learned something today. I did not know that.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time looking at pictures of other people's Christmas lights.” Bucky extricates himself from his blanket nest and walks right up to Steve, puts a hand on his chest, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. He is solid and soft at the same time, his hair carrying the faint scent of wood smoke and cold air from the tree farm.

“I'll get your lights,” mumbles Steve against his lips.

Bucky grins. “Yeah. I’ll make you cookies.”

Oh. Oh, Steve didn’t realize it was a trade. It doesn’t have to be, but Bucky is offering. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want,” says Bucky. He slides his hands down Steve’s chest, fingers tucked into the top of Steve’s jeans. “Even if you want nuts in them.”

Steve cocks his head. Bucky doesn’t make cookies often, but whenever he does, Steve counts every single one of his blessings. Bucky will eat two or three and then leave the rest to Steve to devour, which he does, often within the first twelve hours of them appearing. The whole batch.

“Chocolate chip?” he asks. “Or… snickerdoodles. Or molasses and ginger.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You don’t got a preference?”

 _All of them_ , Steve doesn’t say. “No. Anything.”  
  
“Okay,” says Bucky. “Go away for at least two hours.”

It is the Winter Solstice, after all. The longest fucking night of the year. Steve represses his sigh. “Maybe I’ll see if Sam wants to catch a movie.”  
  
“Great.” Bucky slaps Steve on the shoulder. “Don’t forget my lights.”

It’s worth it, in the end. It always is.

Steve gets to mournfully say “Bucky kicked me out,” when Sam opens his door to greet him, which gets them both laughing like fools for longer than is strictly necessary, and Steve is happy to tag along with Sam to the bar to shoot some pool for a while. He has a beer, eats a lot of peanuts, and then stops by the hardware store to exchange the unacceptable lights for the acceptable ones.

When he gets home a few hours later, he is greeted by an apartment that smells like freshly-baked cookies and a Bucky that smells very pleasantly of vanilla.

“Hey,” says Bucky, appearing in the entryway amidst a cloud of powdered sugar and a palpable sense of frenzy as Steve dumps his bags on the floor. “Don’t come into the kitchen.”  
  
Steve leans in to kiss Bucky and ends up with flour smeared on his cheek. Bucky’s pulled his hair up into a loose bun, individual strands tumbling down, and he is wearing an apron that reads COOKIE MONSTER in block capital letters. All of him is dusted finely with white powder. He smells incredible.

“Why not?” asks Steve. “I waited the allotted time.”

“I,” says Bucky. “Well—”

The timer goes off, and Bucky yells, “FUCK” and pushes away from Steve to sprint back into the kitchen.

Steve, never much one for self-preservation, follows after him at a more sedate pace. In accordance with Bucky’s wishes, he does not come into the kitchen. He does lurk on the threshold, leaning against the doorway as he observes the chaos inside.

Bucky jams blue googly-eyed oven mitts on his hands and says, “This is what happens when you don’t pick one thing.”  
  
“Uh—” says Steve, eyes widening.  
  
“Chocolate chip,” announces Bucky, pulling the tray out of the oven. He puts it down and then points with one muppet-shaped hand to the counter. “Snickerdoodles. Molasses and ginger—”

“Buck—”

“Chocolate crinkle,” continues Bucky, raising his voice to talk over Steve. He points to the table. “And your basic bitch sugar cookie.”

“I’ve been gone three hours,” Steve says weakly. “How—”

Bucky pulls off the novelty oven mitts and throws them on the table. “I’m efficient. You can come in now.”

Steve enters the kitchen and gravitates right toward Bucky, his entire body trying to find a way to react to the fact that Bucky just made five different kinds of cookies for him. He puts his hands out, grabs Bucky by the apron, and drags him in for a much deeper, more insistent kiss than the one they shared at the door.

“You like ‘em?” asks Bucky breathlessly.

“I woulda liked just one kind, pal,” says Steve, cupping Bucky’s face in his hands and kissing his forehead.

“Good,” says Bucky firmly. “Fantastic. I’m gonna suck your dick, now.”

“O-oh.”

Bucky slithers out of Steve’s grip and drops to his knees on the kitchen floor.

Steve kind of stops thinking, after that.

oOo

At 3AM, Steve is standing over the sink with a glass of milk in one hand and half a snickerdoodle in the other when Bucky wanders in, squinting into the fluorescent light of the kitchen.

“Your metabolism is  _stupid_ ,” says Bucky, his voice hoarse with sleep. “You’ve already had fourteen cookies.”

“That you know about,” Steve mumbles through a full mouth.

Bucky huffs, but there’s a self-satisfied curl to his lips as he pads barefoot across the linoleum to lean up against the counter beside Steve. He’s rumpled from sleep, pillow creases on his cheek, and Steve notices with a jolt to his belly that the only thing Bucky is wearing is one of Steve’s hoodies. It falls to mid-thigh, revealing Bucky’s bare legs beneath.

Steve has no idea if Bucky is wearing any underwear and the mystery of it all starts getting him a little riled up again.

“Brush yourself off before you come back to bed,” says Bucky, swiping crumbs off Steve’s chest.

Steve drains his glass of milk and puts it into the sink. Then he turns his body to face Bucky, steps in close, tucking his thigh between Bucky’s legs, resting his hands on his hips.

“What makes you think I want to go back to bed?” murmurs Steve.

“That suckjob wasn’t enough?” asks Bucky, raising an eyebrow. “You wanna go again?”

“I think you didn’t get to come,” comments Steve. “And I think that I can do something about that.”

“Cookies really get you horny, huh,” says Bucky, smirking. He keeps his hands on the counter behind him, arching his hips a little, grinding into Steve’s thigh.

“ _You_ get me horny.”

“Oh, baby,” breathes Bucky, “you say the sweetest things.”

“I’ll make it good,” says Steve, tugging the hem of the hoodie up. As suspected, Bucky is not wearing anything underneath it.

“You better,” says Bucky hotly.

Steve does; wraps his hand snug around Bucky, strokes long from base to tip, listens to Bucky's breath hitch in his lungs.

There's no rush, at this time of night, frozen together in this moment.

Bucky leans heavily into Steve, tipping his head onto his shoulder, trembling with the strain of his arousal. With his other hand curled around Bucky's shoulder, Steve settles into a sedate rhythm.

“Want me to doze off, or what?” mumbles Bucky, rubbing his cheek against Steve, his nose brushing the column of Steve's throat.

“Can if you want,” chuckles Steve.

“If I do, keep going.” Bucky shivers, hips twitching into Steve's tight grip.

It's a long, slow jerk, Steve pulling the orgasm out of him by degrees, until Bucky is a ragged mess panting against Steve, and there's come painted over Steve's knuckles. This whole thing feels like a controlled disaster, but that doesn’t change the fact that Steve is entirely warmed by it.

“Hell,” sighs Bucky, sagging into Steve's close hold. “I just got up for a glass of water.”

Steve kisses his temple.

oOo

“I’m going out,” says Steve on Christmas Eve, grabbing his coat. “You want anything?”  
  
“Ice cream,” demands Bucky without looking up from his phone. “And socks.”  
  
“What kind?” Steve takes his keys from the bowl by the door and turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Of ice cream, not socks.”  
  
“White chocolate raspberry truffle,” Bucky says promptly.

Steve hesitates. “That’s…extremely precise.”  
  
“Here,” says Bucky, texting furiously. “This one.”  
  
Steve checks his own phone and finds that Bucky has texted him a picture of the exact variety of Häagen-Dazs he wants. Well, okay. Easy enough.

“You got it, Buck,” says Steve. “Any preference on socks?”  
  
“None.” Bucky slides down the couch until he’s taking up the entire length of it, turning over to face the TV. His hair is a static mess, sticking to his forehead and the cushions, and as he lifts his metal hand up to brush it away, he predictably shocks himself in the face. “Ow. Motherfucker.”  
  
Steve hides his smile and says, “Back in a bit.”  
  
Bucky just mumbles something and waves in his general direction.

The first store doesn’t have the right flavour, and the second store has a sale on so it’s entirely sold out, so Steve walks another five blocks to Rite Aid, where he buys two pints and is already halfway home before he remembers the socks. He immediately loops around, jogging back to the store.

By the time he gets home, socks and ice cream in hand, Steve can’t remember why he went out in the first place.  
  
“Back,” he calls out as he lets himself in.

Bucky hasn’t moved, still sprawled out on the couch, bare feet jammed under a cushion. He’s watching some kind of nature documentary, and as Steve comes in, he holds his hand out.

“Which do you want?” asks Steve, standing over the back of the couch.

“Surprise me.”

Steve puts the ice cream in Bucky’s hand and he’s rewarded by Bucky making a pleased noise, so Steve goes into the kitchen to get him a spoon and put the other pint away. When he comes back, Bucky has sat up, wrapped himself in a blanket, and peeled the plastic off the top of the ice cream. Steve gives him his spoon and plops down next to him on the couch, putting his arm around Bucky’s shoulders.  
  
“Here,” says Bucky, digging out a spoonful and holding it out to Steve, “Try it, it’s the best.”  
  
“Thanks,” says Steve, letting Bucky feed it to him. “Mmm. Nice. Sweet.”

“What did you get?” Bucky asks.

“Nothing,” says Steve. “Just wanted to go out for a walk.”

If there  _was_ a reason, he’ll remember it later. It doesn’t matter, now.

oOo

“Okay,” says Steve, surveying the setup with his hands on his hips.

He’s gotta admit, it looks pretty good. Bucky turned off all the lights in the apartment, leaving the living room lit only by the roaring fire and the (white) Christmas tree lights. Spread out on the floor in front of the fireplace is the ethically-sourced and cruelty-free bearskin rug, which ultimately resulted from a very embarrassing conversation with Tony, and was delivered yesterday via courier.

The accompanying note made Steve’s ears burn and he’s since tossed it into the fireplace.

“Okay,” agrees Bucky.

“What do we do now?” asks Steve.

“Well,” says Bucky. “You’re going to take off your pants, big guy, and you’re gonna fuck me there,” he points at the rug, “warmed by the crackling fire, as the soft glow of the tree’s lights illuminates our naked bodies.”

Steve inhales so sharply he chokes on his own saliva and starts to cough. “ _What_?”

Bucky claps his hands together and then marches forward, grabbing the hem of Steve’s shirt. “Naked,” he barks. “Get.”

“Bucky!” sputters Steve, lifting his arms up. Bucky very efficiently divests him of his shirt. “You want to… that’s why you… What?”

“You seriously didn’t think to ask why?” Bucky sounds like he’s laughing at him. “You just did all this and now you’re surprised I want you to fuck me in front of it?”

“I thought maybe you were feeling… I don’t know…” Steve trails off dumbly. “Seasonal? Nostalgic?”

“I’m feeling like I want sex,” says Bucky. His large blue eyes are very dark and very serious, and he is now undoing Steve’s jeans. “With you, right here, on and around the fruits of our labour. I’m feeling like the aesthetic is finally _just right_.”

Bucky has definitely achieved a very specific aesthetic. If it was possible for it to be snowing indoors, Steve is sure it would be.

Tugging Steve's fly open, Bucky sticks both hands into his pants to shove them down his hips.

“Well, if the aesthetic is finally right, I guess we don't have a choice,” says Steve.

“Glad you agree,” says Bucky. He gives another sharp tug to Steve's pants and Steve steps out of them, kicking them away. With Steve 90% undressed, Bucky concentrates on removing his own clothes.

It's pretty quick and efficient, like most of what Bucky does. He isn't wearing underwear and there are no buttons, zippers, or snaps involved.

Once he's naked, he puts his hands on his hips and looks at Steve expectantly.

“Oh,” says Steve, startling back to life and stripping off his underwear. “Sorry.”

Now they're both naked in the living room, Steve thinks, a little hysterically.

“Take me now,” Bucky says woodenly, and Steve covers his face just in time to smother the burst of laughter from his chest. “Good,” continues Bucky, pinching one of Steve's nipples. “Get it out of your system.”

“ _Bucky_!” Steve grabs his wrist, pulling him in, and Bucky uses the movement to deliberately overbalance them both into a controlled fall, rolling them neatly onto the rug.

Steve braces himself over Bucky, hands propped up either side of Bucky's head, kneeling between his legs, and just as he's about to ask Bucky what he wants him to do next, Bucky wraps his legs around Steve's waist and digs his heels into Steve's back.

“Oh,” exhales Steve. “Right.”

“Steve,” says Bucky quietly, and the way he says it, the needy pull of his tone, hooks right into the very guts of him.

“Yeah?” Steve pauses for a moment to just  _look_ at Bucky. And he looks at him everyday, which is miracle enough on its own, but it doesn't get old. Bucky naked, open, wanting, all wrapped around him, that won't ever get old. Steve gets to have this, now. He gets to give this to Bucky, gets to give Bucky whatever he asks for.

“Jeeze, pal,” mumbles Bucky, eyes wide, the sharp line of his jaw thrown into sharp relief by the flicker of the flames. “Don't cry.”

“I'm not,” says Steve. There's a lump in his throat, but he's not crying. Instead, he's leaning in, kissing him, listening for the little pleased noise Bucky always makes.

“Y'are,” Bucky says against his lips, but then he moans softly and clutches at Steve. “That's—” between kisses, now, “how you—cry.”

It's not, and they both know it; Steve's an ugly crier when he's angry or sad. When he's overwhelmed with happiness, though, well—

Steve curls his fingers into Bucky's hair and tugs lightly. “You're just...very beautiful, like this.”

“Good lighting,” Bucky says firmly, a flush settling warm in his cheeks and chest. His breath hitches a little, ragged in his lungs.

It does help—the fire creates strong shadows, while the tree's lights bounce translucent patterns over their skin, like they're sinking underwater. Largely, though, it's just Bucky himself, soft and vulnerable around the edges as he looks up at Steve.

The last thing he wants to do is spoil the mood, but…

“I don't have any slick, Buck,” he says apologetically, ducking his head to kiss Bucky's jaw. “I gotta—”

“Don't be stupid,” says Bucky. Propping himself up on his left elbow, he reaches between them to grasp Steve's cock, giving him a squeeze and a slow stroke. Steve bites back a low groan and knocks his head against Bucky's chin as he shudders. “Ow. Dummy. I handled this earlier, just…”

Bucky leaves the thought hanging, and Steve is too stupid with Bucky's hand on his cock for his neurons to fire. “...what?”

With a upward twist of his hips, Bucky arches his back and lines Steve's cock up with his hole. “I am ready,” Bucky says very clearly, “for you to fuck me.”

Steve's entire mind goes white with static. His dick twitches, arousal burning in his belly. He stays perfectly still, the head of his cock nudging at Bucky's rim. Cautiously, he lifts his head, finds Bucky staring at him, desire written clear across his tense face.

“You done processing that?” Impatient.

“That you fingered yourself open beforehand to be ready for this?” Steve's out of breath, still. Sweat is prickling at his skin. “Just about... Jesus Christ, Buck. You want me to just…?”

“Push in? Yeah, that's the idea. My leg is cramping up, so you better get moving.”

“Anything you say, Buck,” breathes Steve. Bucky lets go of him, leaning back more comfortably, while Steve adjusts his weight and angle and carefully guides his cock into Bucky. He doesn’t want to rush, in this still moment stretched out between them, he wants to take his time.

They went to all this effort, after all.

So he moves slowly, slides in deep, feels it all around him as Bucky draws in a breath and holds it. Pushes and pushes, leisurely, until he’s buried in the core of him, and Bucky is panting with it, head tossed back against the fur of the rug, throat exposed.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, seemingly to himself, “yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, just—”

“I’ve got you,” murmurs Steve, soft, trailing his lips over Bucky’s collarbone. “This good?”

“It’s good,” rasps Bucky, “You’re good, be better if you were moving.”

“Getting there,” chuckles Steve, muscles stretching languidly as he arches and pulls out, seeks purchase once again as Bucky trembles, drawing him in. It’s hot and slick but there is a friction in the motion of it, searing through Steve, sparking pleasure up his spine.

“You’re only ever patient during sex,” groans Bucky. “Fuck me, _fuck me_.”

“I’m only ever patient when I’m fucking you during sex,” corrects Steve.

“You aren’t fucking me, currently,” says Bucky, grabbing Steve’s wrist and squeezing. “You’re inside me, sure, but you ain’t moving, are you. You stopped.”

He did. He did stop, too busy just _feeling_ to remember he’s supposed to be doing this, doing Bucky the way he asked.

“Didn’t intend to,” he says, soothing, drags his hips back and rolls them forward, burying himself deep.

“That’s it,” says Bucky, voice thick. “That’s it, keep going, please, _please_ , Steve, come on—”

He’s begging, raw, and Steve can’t help himself when Bucky begs. He spreads his knees a little, shifts his hips and settles into a rhythm a few degrees faster than glacial creep, the kind of building pressure that starts at the base of his balls and then consumes him entirely. Beneath Steve, Bucky pushes back to meet his strokes, shaking, squeezing tight around him.

“Steve,” gasps Bucky, reaching for his own cock, hard against his belly, but Steve catches his hands, presses them to the rug. “Please!” he sobs, needy in his desperation, expression broken open. “Hey, come on, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says firmly. “Keep those there.” He squeezes Bucky’s hands, and when he releases him, Bucky curls his hands into fists at his sides and doesn’t move them.

Steve fucks him, easy, with smooth thrusts; fills him up and pins him, steady, to the floor.

“I am always going to give you what you want,” says Steve evenly. “You got that, Buck?”

Bucky turns his face to the side, eyes slipping shut, his lashes glittering under the lights. “Yeah,” he croaks, “I got it, I got you.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, wrapping his hand around Bucky’s cock, thumbing over the wet head.

Bucky cries out, hips jerking into Steve’s grip, shuddering bodily. He clutches at his own hair, spread dark over the rug behind his head, with one hand, and curls the other around Steve’s hip, metal fingers digging into the meat of his thigh.

Steve makes him come, first, works him to completion with each press of his cock and twist of his fingers, until Bucky arches his back and spills over with a stuttering gasp, flushed and gleaming with sweat.

“It’s good,” Steve says hoarsely, drinking in the sticky mess of him, reaching the end of his own tether as he picks up speed.

“What is?” Bucky’s voice is thready, his legs having fallen open to bracket Steve’s waist loosely.

“The aesthetic,” says Steve, biting his lower lip. He’s so close. “All this. You look good in it. You look good like this. Warm.”

“Aw, Steve,” groans Bucky, his face twisting up fondly. “You dope.” He squeezes tighter. “Go on.”

Steve pushes over, tumbles over the edge, arousal breaking like a wave as he comes.

Bucky squeezes obligingly around him, bringing him home.

oOo

“Steve.” Bucky wriggles so that he's lying on top of Steve, stubbly chin digging into his chest, long tangled hair brushing against Steve's skin. He blinks sleepy eyes at Steve and presses his lips to Steve's heart.

“Yeah, Buck,” sighs Steve. He lifts a hand and trails his fingers through Bucky's hair, carefully tugging the knots apart.

“Thank you,” Bucky says. His voice breaks a little, and there's a telltale shine to his eyes as he says it.

Oh. Oh, god. Now Bucky is the one that’s crying, and that’s a lot for Steve to take.

“You're welcome,” says Steve, trying not to get sympathetically choked up. “It was nothing, Buck.”

“It was a lot of somethings.” Bucky snuffles, the tip of his nose a bit pink. “A lot of 'em. Thanks.”

Steve just nods, listening to the crackle of the fire, Bucky a warm, solid weight above him.

oOo

Steve is licking cookie crumbs off his fingers in the kitchen when Bucky appears. He is, Steve notices, wearing the green and red fuzzy socks Steve got him the other day. He also has an intent look on his face like he’s decided to chase something down.

“Hey,” Bucky says shortly. “Why do you let me boss you around?” He steps right into Steve, demanding a hug, and Steve happily obliges, putting his arms around him as Bucky makes himself smaller, burrows against Steve's chest, under his chin.

“What is this, peppermint?” asks Steve, shoving his nose into Bucky's soft hair and taking a big sniff.

“Peppermint mocha,” mumbles Bucky, voice muffled by Steve's hoodie. “Don't change the subject.”

Steve huffs. Turns his face up to the sky and rolls his eyes at the universe. “It doesn't count as bossing me around if it's something I'd do anyway, Buck.”

“You do everything I tell you.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow,” mumbles Bucky. “Wow. You big sap. You fucking fool.”

“It’s just good to see,” says Steve softly. If he thinks too hard about it, he’ll cry, like, _really_ cry. There’s already a bit of a lump in his throat. “You wanting stuff for yourself.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around Steve. He doesn’t lift his head.

“Anything, Bucky,” continues Steve.

“Hey,” says Bucky. A tremor runs through him, he sniffs once, looks up. The tip of his nose is a little pink, eyes red-rimmed. Reaching up, he cups Steve’s face in his hands, real gentle, and kisses him. Mouth soft, he presses in tentatively, and Steve opens to him easily. Like breathing.

“Hey,” whispers Steve, smiling. “I know, Buck. I know.”

“Yeah,” sighs Bucky. “Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

“Oh, fuck,” says Steve, the memory of it grabbing hold suddenly.

“What?”

“I was gonna, um, get a couple stockings,” mumbles Steve. “Hang ‘em on the fireplace. Put some little oranges and chocolate coins inside, you know, like we used to…”

Bucky’s brow furrows a little, mouth curling up. “We don’t need that. It’s okay. This wasn’t about any of that.”

“Just forgot,” sighs Steve. “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” says Bucky, kissing him again. “I’m happy. It’s good.”

“The aesthetic isn’t ruined?” asks Steve sheepishly. “I could go out—”

“No,” says Bucky. “That’s stupid. I liked it better like this. I liked this, just fine.”

“Are you sure—”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Bucky. He grabs Steve’s face again. Looks him dead in the eyes. “Don’t go out on Christmas.”

Then he kisses Steve again, warm and firm, and Steve suddenly doesn’t want to go anywhere again.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been calling this fic "tree fuck" on twitter. the working title was "i want to fuck by the fireplace bathed in the light of a christmas tree, steve". hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ambiance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161694) by [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight)




End file.
